


The Millstone of Patience

by dustbunnyprophet



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Day 7, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gratuitous nudity, Happy Ending, Humor, I REGRET NOTHING, M/M, Michele and Georgi being extra, Michele is a worrywart, Mila and Sara ship them hard, Mila is the best wingwoman, Popo Week, Romance, drunk Georgi, past Georgi Popovich/Anya - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 18:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10904958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbunnyprophet/pseuds/dustbunnyprophet
Summary: A banquet, a broken heart, and an unwilling knight in shining armour. Or how they fell in love on a bathroom floor.A Michele/Georgi fic.Popoweek2k17, Day 7, loosely based on the prompt "The Sleeping Prince".





	The Millstone of Patience

The banquet hall was filled with soft music. Whispered notes on the piano weaved between the clinking of champagne flutes and the light chatter that buzzed around Georgi. Tapping his foot in time with the music he leaned against the table, observing the gathering of athletes and sponsors. Smartly dressed, they all mingled with small talk and light laughter, while the soft yellow light of the crystal chandelier danced over them. He watched it catch in Mila’s golden medal, glimmering like a sun to the pale starlight of Georgi’s silver. He dropped his gaze, looking at his chest where the medal hung. He had gotten second place at Europeans, ten points behind Yuri, and two ahead of Giacometti. And there was a blossom of pride somewhere deep within his chest. 

It was not gold, but it was neither bronze, and outscoring Chris was something he hadn’t been able to do in years. It reminded Georgi that there were still heights to achieve. That he had still something to give to the skating world. And he was going to. Victor’s retirement had made him question himself. But he had not been ready to retire yet. And now he was certain. He was going to skate one more season, do his utmost to secure his country the three spots on the Olympics they could get, and only then would he retire. 

Lifting his eyes he took in the sight of his team, all aglow in the spoils of a successful competition, and his lips curled in a smile. He took a sip of his champagne, silently watching Yura scowl with little heat, trying not to roll his eyes while Lilia forced him to talk to what were clearly sponsors. Yakov was standing nearby, smiling as well. And it was such a strange sight on the irascible coach, that it made pride swell in Georgi’s chest.

They had done it. Him, Mila, Yura, they were bringing home two golds and one silver in singles, while the pair skaters and the ice dancers got gold as well. It was the best overall result they got, and it gave their country hope for the World Team Trophy in April.

It was not strange for the Russian team to excel, after all Victor alone had secured gold for too many seasons to count, but with his retirement things had looked shakier, more uncertain, especially after Mila had gotten silver at the GPF in Barcelona. Then Yura had gone and written his name in the history of figure skating as the first skater to win gold at the Grand Prix final on his senior debut. 

No one, not even Georgi who had trained with Yura for years, had been able to predict that. It had been breathtaking, wondrous, and Georgi had never felt prouder of his teammate. To see the teen get recognition for his hard work, to see him aglow with happiness and self-fulfilment, it was worthy of the gold Georgi had missed yesterday. 

Georgi took another sip of champagne, and let the ease of the evening seep into him. It was a good feeling, a quiet kind of peace that flowed seamlessly with the chatter which surrounded him. Yes, one more season. He was going to savour this for one more season. And then there was the rest of his life. Plans that were only ephemeral footnotes on the thoughts of the future. 

He knew he would have to eventually decide, but for now he let it all slide, enjoying the evening, and not thinking about how hard parting with his team was going to be. How he’d be turning twenty-nine next December, and his joints were already starting to ache a bit too often. How he was going to leave the ice on the eve of an olympic season.

Georgi sighed, leaning against the table and lifting the half-empty flute of champagne to his lips. He sipped it, letting his thoughts unfurl like petals. 

It was a pleasure for once to be able to let himself go, to enjoy himself without the shade of sadness and heartbreak darkening it all. It was a rare respite from the whirlwind that had pushed him forward in the past months. He sighed contentedly and felt a small smile tugging at his lips. 

Another sip of champagne, and he let it roll down his tongue. He turned his head to idly listen to Mila and Sara chattering nearby. They both giggled lightheartedly, and it sounded like spring reaching its pale fingers through the snow. A deeper voice joined them, saying something in a teasing tone, and then the three of them were laughing. 

He had almost forgotten how good it was to be free. To tread lightly like butterfly wings. And simply enjoy the moment, as small as it was. 

It had been a long time since he had felt so at ease.

And that should have been the first clue. 

Because good things were not meant to last.  Not for him. But there, in the warm light of the banquet Georgi paid it no mind.

He put his empty flute on the table, still wrapped in the cocoon of quiet. A smear of red caught his eye. He followed it to the door, to the glimmer of sequins artfully sewn on the hem of a dress. A familiar red dress, that stretched over a body he could still map in his sleep. And the peace, the quiet, the contentment were swallowed by the dark waves of the stormy sea as Anya strolled into the room, fashionably late as always. 

Georgi’s heart clenched painfully. Her eyes met his for a brief second, and he almost missed the curl of disgust on Anya’s carefully painted lips. 

He wished he had. He truly wished he had. 

He wished many things, and all of them so impossible they tore the fabric of his heart time and time again. 

A heartbeat passed and yet it seemed mountains must have drifted and seas must have risen as the ages passed. Because where the light had been soft before now it was a judging glare that emphasised all his shortcomings, all the reasons why a goddess such as Anya had tossed him aside. His throat constricted, and he forced himself to breathe. 

She had competed, she had even won gold, Georgi knew she would have come to the banquet eventually. It was not a surprise. 

It didn’t make it hurt less.

A waiter passed nearby and Georgi leapt forward, grabbing a flute of champagne. He lifted it to his mouth with shaking fingers, but when the liquid sizzled on his tongue he found himself unable to stop. He downed it all in one go, reaching forward to take another. 

He desperately ached for the peace he had been feeling. For the quiet warmth of spring. But the storm raged around him once again and he could only watch Anya float around the room in her bright red dress, laughing and moving her beautiful bare arms with grace. Georgi could only ache for the hopes he had lost along the way, for the love that had curdled inside his chest, growing into something ugly and crooked. Like him.

He could watch, and slowly drown his sorrows.

“You okay, Zhora?” faintly he registered Mila quietly inquiring. 

He shook his head, reaching for another flute of champagne. What could he tell her? That he felt ripped in half over and over again. That each time he allowed himself to think the winter was ending, the sun would darken and the first blooms would wither in the harsh wind. 

He downed another flute of champagne. And sighed.

The redhead squeezed his arm in sympathy, giving him a long look. And then she turned back to the energetic Italian silver medalist, pulling him along. 

“Sara, did Zhora tell you about that time in Juniors....” she began, trying to include him. 

To distract him. 

Georgi appreciated the effort, for all that it was futile. He tried to add something to the conversation, but he could not help his eyes from seeking that flash of red as Anya moved through the crowd, a beautiful smile on her lips, and the chiming sound of her laughter reverberating through the noise. 

He grabbed another flute of champagne as the waiter weaved closer to them, and downed it. The room was starting to spin, but he liked it. It was like being on the ice with no music but the chiming of laughter and voices which ebbed and flowed around him. He let go to it swaying to a rhythm he could feel in his bones. 

And then overestimated his balance. Suddenly the floor was tilting closer. Georgi flailed with his arms to keep himself upright, and nearly knocked someone. Dark hair, tan skin. Oh, he had nearly hit Sara. He mumbled an apology, but the girl just laughed, grabbing his left arm and placing it across her shoulders. 

Faintly he registered her saying something to him, but he was too busy trying to move away from her. He had no intention of embracing her. She may be very pretty indeed, and truly a fun person to spend time with. But Georgi’s heart belonged to Anya. To his beloved goddess.

He was drunkenly trying to untangle his arm from her surprisingly strong grip when Mila suddenly appeared to his right, grabbing his other arm and mirroring the Italian girl. 

“Zhora, let’s get you back to your room,  _ da? _ ” she said, and Georgi’s sluggish mind understood the intention. A very sound one. He was completely out.

“Shall we?” Sara asked softly.

“ _ Da. _ ” he hummed, and then they were moving, walking out of the banquet hall. The floor was uneven, swinging under his feet. But the girls circled their arms around his waist, keeping him up.

 

Michele nearly dropped his glass. He watched with wide eyes his sister walk out of the hall with Popovich’s arm slung over her shoulders. Before Emil could ask him what was going on, Michele pushed his flute of champagne in his hands and strode towards the hall’s doors, cursing himself for getting distracted. 

He knew he had promised Sara to stay out of her business, but surely  _ this  _ warranted action. He had seen her drink, and Popovich looked quite intoxicated. What if Sara didn’t know what she was doing? What if the Russian took advantage of her? He’d rather face his twin’s wrath than risk her safety and well-being.

Michele had been graced with long legs, and being quite sober it took him no time to reach the drunken pair. 

Only they were not alone.

Standing there in front of the elevator was Babicheva who also had one of Popovich’s arms across her shoulders, forcing the tall man to hunch his back. Michele frowned, but he did not slow his purposeful stride. 

“Mickey?” his sister exclaimed when she turned her head and caught him walking in their direction.

“Sara, are you alright?” he inquired worriedly, throwing a withering glare in Popovich’s direction, and not missing the way Mila lifted her hand to her lips to hide the giggle, but the tall Russian for his part did not seem to acknowledge him whatsoever.

“I am, Mickey.” sara replied with a sigh of annoyance “Mila and I are helping Georgi back to his room.”

Back to his  _ room _ ? Michele felt his jaw drop in outrage. His sister might not be alone, but there was no way he was going to let the two girls go to a drunken Russian men’s hotel room. Popovich was twice their size,  _ per la Madonna _ .

“Absolutely not!” he exclaimed in Italian “Are you out of your mind?”

“ _ Mickey... _ ” Sara begun, her nostrils flaring “We’ve already discussed this…”

“It’s too dangerous” he rebutted, still speaking in their native tongue, and not caring if it was impolite towards the two Russians “What if something happened?”

“Don’t be silly, Mickey.” Sara rebutted, jabbing her finger into his chest “Georgi needs help!”

“Then I’ll do it!” he spat back in English “I’ll get him to his room”

He grabbed the arm which was placed across Sara’s shoulders and yanked Popovich to him.

“Are you sure?” Mila asked, looking between Sara and him. 

Michele nodded resolutely, and for some unfathomable reason elicited another giggle from the redhead 

“Okay then” she told him with a grin “Zhora is in room 513.”

 

Georgi didn’t really understand what was going on. One minute he was being half carried by Mila and Sara, and the next he was being dragged into the elevator by a very irritated looking Michele Crispino. Georgi had to admit he was easer to lean on, being his height. But where the two girls had been cheerful, Crispino looked pissed off.

“Why are you angry?” he slurred, turning his head to his left, and looking at the Italian.

“What?” Crispino exclaimed, turning his violet eyes towards him, and frowning with an irritated curl of his lips “I don’t understand Russian.”

Oh. He hadn’t realised he had not said it in English. Maybe he was drunker than he thought.

“I asked why are you angry.” Georgi repeated in English, pronouncing the words slowly to make them understandable. His tongue kept getting knotted on some letters.

Crispino glared at him in lieu of a reply.

“Why would you care, Popovich?” he bit back confrontationally, and Georgi blinked, the younger skater’s face swimming in front of his eyes.

“I saw you at the Rostelecom.” he told him, remembering the free skate that had touched him so deeply “You were beautiful.”

Michele gaped, blinking twice to try and make sense of the drunken ramblings, but the older skater had reverted to his native tongue after telling him he had been beautiful. It was such a strange thing to say. And it made him feel mildly uncomfortable, as a blush rose to his cheeks. Why would Popovich think he was  _ beautiful _ , of all things? His sister, now that was a true embodiment of beauty and grace. Michele was just her faithful knight, reliable and unyielding. Beauty had never factored in. In fact he was quite sure no one had ever called him beautiful before.

The sudden ping of the elevator tore him from his thoughts. They had reached the fifth floor. The doors slid open and Michele adjusted his grip on the older skater’s waist to drag him into the corridor. It was a slow going, with Popovich stumbling on his legs, and looking quite pale the more they swayed left and right. Michele did his best to keep Popovich from hitting the wall as they veered left on the corridor, and ended up slamming his shoulder on the opposite wall instead.

A silent curse escaped his lips, but he trudged on, looking at the room numbers, until they reached the door they were looking for. The Russian made no move to retrieve his key card, and Michele shook him out of his stupor.

“Popovich.” he called “ _ Georgi _ , I need your key card.”

“ _ Khorosho _ ” he replied, fumbling through his pockets, and nearly dropping the card on the floor once he found it. Michele thanked his good reflexes for managing to snatch her from Popovich’s fingers just in time.

Shaking his head at the Russian’s stupidity in getting  _ this  _ drunk, Michele unlocked the door and ushered them in. He made a beeline to the bed, fully intending to drop the Russian on the bed and take his leave.

Michele had nearly sat Popovich down on the queen sized bed when he noticed how slightly greenish the man looked.

“ _ Per la Madonna,  _ don’t throw up!” he told him, alarmed “I’m serious, Popovich. Don’t you dare!”

But the Russian looked sicker by the minute, and Michele cursed again, louder this time, pulling the other skater in the direction of the en suite. The barely made it to the toilet bowl before Popovich was dropping to his knees and pouring out his stomach’s contents. Michele grabbed his head when the Russian nearly smacked his forehead on the ceramic.

As he listened to the retching sounds, Michele had to wonder what had he done to deserve this.

 

His stomach heaved again, and Georgi clutched the edge of the bowl. The bitter taste of bile burned on his tongue. Everything swam in front of his eyes, the tiles dancing too fast for him to focus. He fell back on the floor, only now realising there was a pair of hands keeping him upright. A grunt of protest sounded faintly somewhere beyond the buzzing in his ears. 

In a rare moment of clarity, Georgi wondered what the hell he was doing. Drinking his weight in champagne did not make it easier to go through the night, he should know that. It only led him to sit on the cold bathroom floor, feeling his head fall forward and his whole body threatening to collapse. 

Those hands steadied him once again, and a deep voice was muttering something that must have been curses. Well, Georgi mused, they were right to curse him. After all his whole existence was a pitiful mockery. A pathetic man so full of hubris he thought he could wish for the impossible. For Anya. For the beauty beyond comparison of a goddess he was unworthy of.

Georgi felt his throat constrict, and the swaying tiles blurred in front of his eyes. He tried to blink it off, but a dam had cracked and the tears began spidering their way down his cheeks. He could not hold back. 

He didn’t even try.

 

Michele looked in apprehension at the sobbing man who was practically sitting in his lap. And he felt so terribly out of his depth. His arms were still circling the shaking body. Should he do something? Say something? He had no idea how to deal with the sobbing mess that was currently moving in his lap and turning towards him. Michele’s eyes widened even as Popovich buried his face in his chest. He observed the dark hair and trembling shoulders for a breathless moment. And then he awkwardly embraced the Russian.

Popovich did not look like he was about to stop anytime soon. 

His legs were starting to ache from sitting too long in the same position. He had to do something. But what? He had very limited experience when it came to comforting people. In fact Michele had only ever held his sister while she cried. So what would he do if it were Sara sobbing in his arms?

The sudden flash of anger that flared up his chest startled him, but it also reminded him. If it were his twin Michele would no doubt seek to avenge her, directing all of his fury at the ones who dared hurting his precious Sara.

But Popovich was not her. He was just a competitor Michele had barely ever spoken to before tonight. It still did not change the ugly sobs rising from his throat and the utter grief and desperation that pulsed out of him like shockwaves. Perhaps Michele didn’t know the Russian, but it did not stop him from feeling rage on his behalf. 

He wanted to know who had done this to him and hunt them down. 

Popovich’s fingers were clutching the fabric of his shirt, and Michele’s anger bubbled, growing more and more scorching as the minutes trickled by, and the cold of the tiles seeped through his slacks. 

“Who did this?” he asked, and nearly winced at how forceful his voice sounded. But it did catch Popovich’s attention, and his head rose from the depths of Michele’s shirt, blue eyes meeting violet. 

There was an edge of confusion on the Russian’s tear-stained face.

“Who made you cry?” Michele reformulated, awkwardness battling with anger in his voice.

Popovich’s eyes turned immeasurably sad once again, and he sighed dejectedly.

“Anya.”

Michele frowned, but the name did ring a bell. 

Popovich was still speaking, but he had reverted to his native tongue and Michele did not stop him. At least his sobs had had abated, and his tears were running silently, marking the words Michele did not understand. He held the older skater as he cried and whispered in Russian.

Who was Anya? Why was her name so familiar?

As he picked at the most disparate corners of his mind for a clue, Michele did not register his hands starting to run comforting circles on Popovich’s back. Nor did he noticed the older skater curling back against his chest, his voice a rumble against Michele’s breastbone.

Slowly, bit by but the tears stopped, and Michele just held the exhausted, drunken man in his arms, awkwardness drained by the anger and need to protect. 

Maybe he didn’t know the Russian, maybe they were just competitors, but he couldn’t help the desire to crush this Anya and make her regret hurting him. He had no idea who she was, but he hated her nonetheless. Whatever she had done was inexcusable.

 

Georgi was spent, his chest hollowed out from crying. He sniffled, closing his eyes and leaning into the warmth that surrounded him. The world was still swaying, and his stomach faintly protested, but he let himself drift away.

It might have been a few minutes, or hours, Georgi did not know. He had just started dozing off when a deep voice startled him awake.

“You can’t sleep here.” Michele told him sharply. Right, Crispino was the one holding him. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Bed. Yes, he hummed in approval, thinking about the fresh sheets on the queen sized bed and the softness of the pillows. Crispino pushed both of them to their feet, maneuvering him when Georgi swayed precariously. He slung Georgi’s arm over his shoulders and circled his waist, starting to move towards the door. Georgi’s feet followed, sluggish in their movements, and feeling like they weren’t even his own. 

They had nearly made it to the door when a thought occurred Georgi.

“Need… shower first.” he mumbled.

“What?” Crispino shot his head in his direction.

“Shower. Can’t go to bed like this.” Georgi replied, trying to keep his voice from slurring on the syllables.

Michele stared at him, blinking several times. But Popovich was still looking at his earnestly. And in the span of a heartbeat Michele was able to envision all the possible ways this scenario could turn into a disaster. Popovich was barely standing upright as it was.

“Popov..  _ Georgi _ , you’re too drunk to stand.” he tried to be gentle, but even he could hear how clipped his tone was.

“But bed is clean. I’m not.” was the reply he got, accompanied by Popovich drunken version of puppy eyes. It had a slightly more dramatic edge on him, but Michele found himself heaving a sigh.

“I can run you bath.” he conceded at last, thankful the en suite a tub as well as a shower.

The smile he got in return was confusingly worth the trouble of maneuvering the intoxicated Russian until he was sitting with his back to the wall, taking his own suit jacket off to not wet it, and starting to run a bath for him. 

This situation was so ridiculously preposterous, Michele was unable to be irritated by it. 

It was just too outlandish.

 

Five minutes later, Michele found himself muttering curses under his breath as he began the ungrateful task of  _ undressing  _ Popovich. Not that he had planned to get on this endeavour, but after the fifth failed attempt at unbuttoning his shirt, Michele had batted his hands away and did it for him. 

It was embarrassing, terribly so, and Michele felt a blush burn on his cheeks.

It wasn’t that he was unused to nude men, he had been an athlete most of his life, after all. But they were not in a locker room, and way the Russian clung to him to keep his drunken balance made the thing seem far more intimate than it actually was. 

And if his sister ever found out, Michele was sure he would be teased for it until his grave. 

His blush did not recede, even after Popovich’s chiselled torso disappeared under the mound of bubbles that floated on the surface of the bath, in fact it got even worse when the Russian emitted a sound of contentment that was too much like a moan. 

Michele turned his head abruptly, staring at the tiled wall ahead and wondering if he left now what would the odds of Popovich drowning in the tub. Or slipping and breaking his neck on the way out. 

The wall did not reply, but common sense did, and Michele swallowed. 

He was going to soldier it through, one way or the other. He could not let the Russian get hurt just because he as embarrassed by his nudity. He heaved a sigh, casting a glance at the drunken skater who was completely enveloped in suds. The only silver lining to this situation was that Popovich was unlikely to remember any of this in the morning. 

Or at least he hoped.

 

The warmth of the water almost lulled Georgi to sleep. But just when he felt the first tendrils of slumber starting to drag him under, a voice - Michele’s - shook him out of it. 

He was not sure he understood what he was being told, but his body responded to it, starting to stand up in the tub. A shiver ran over his wet skin, but a moment later there were towels wrapped around him, and he was being moved around. There was some fumbling, before a toothbrush was being put in his hand. Still swaying, and gripping the edge of the sink for support, Georgi did his best to brush his teeth. 

The mint taste of the toothpaste felt blissful after the horrible aftertaste that had lingered on his tongue for what seemed like ages. He spat it out and rinsed his mouth, all the while feeling Michele’s strong grip on his waist. 

The Italian was a godsend, a copper haired angel if he had ever encountered one. And Georgi told him so, but Michele replied with an exasperated

“I don’t speak Russian,  _ Cristo iddio! _ ”

“You’re an angel.” Georgi repeated, blinking to keep his eyes open, and looking at the fuzzy image of Michele that seemed on the verge of splitting into a double. He opened his mouth to tell him as much, but he was not sure his lips ever parted before everything faded to black.

Michele thanked his excellent reflexes for catching the older skater before he crumpled into a pile on the floor. For heaven’s sake, what had he done to deserve this? 

Popovich was rather heavy, and Michele struggled to get a better grip on him. He tried to shake him, but the Russian was out cold. Well, he was still breathing at last, so he must had just passed out. 

Heaving a sigh, he decided to drop him in his bed and  _ finally  _ take his leave. The things he did for his sister... Michele shook his head while he struggled to drag the unconscious skater out of the bathroom. As they made their way towards the bed, Michele noticed the towel he had placed over Popovich’s shoulders slipped off, and the one on his hips was hanging precariously low. 

And the blush that he had managed to banish at some point returned with a vengeance. 

He dropped the Russian unceremoniously on the bed and wondered if he should get him dressed. He swallowed, shaking his head. No, this was already too embarrassing as it was. No need to make it even worse. Michele pulled the covers and maneuvered the unconscious Russian under them, towel and everything still as they were. He tucked him in. And then stopped near the bed unsure at what to do. 

Was Popovich going to be okay? 

Aside from the massive hangover he was going to suffer the next morning, but that was not his concern. Oh, but maybe he could get him some painkillers, and a bottle of water. That would at least make the whole ordeal less painful, right?

Reasoning that Popovich being an athlete must own some painkillers, Michele took a quick look around the room. He was really not keen on having to look through the Russian’s luggage. Well, he could take a quick run to his room and fetch his own. But as he debated whether to do it, Michele began to wonder if Popovich  _ was  _ going to be okay on his own. What if he choked on his own vomit or something? It was not unheard of.

Michele grimaced as worry rose inside him. He couldn’t just leave the other skater to the mercy of chance. 

Well, that at least made the choice easier. There was no going around it. He would have to look through Popovich’s belongings and find him some painkillers. He began with the most logical place which was the bathroom, but a quick look to the shelf above the sink revealed nothing but a hairbrush and bottle of hairspray. Michele looked in the open luggage next. He rummaged through the neatly folded clothes, but found no pills. The front pocket of the luggage gave the same result. There were some items scattered on the small desk and Michele looked through them. A couple of magazines, a book, a scarf thrown above them.

He moved the fleece scarf, and underneath it there was a picture frame. He lifted it in curiosity. It was a portrait of a dark haired woman who looked very familiar to Michele. She was smiling brightly at the camera, wavy hair thrown behind her shoulder. He frowned, gazing at the pale skin, and the artfully applied make-up. And then it dawned on him. She was one of the Russian gold medalists. An ice dancer, Anya something. 

Anya.

Michele’s fingers gripped the edge of the frame. This woman was the reason why Popovich had been crying before. He gnashed his teeth, suddenly seeing every flaw in her apparently picture perfect appearance. Her eyes were not smiling, she wore way too much make-up. What was she hiding? She had to be a horrible person if she made Popovich feel so miserable, there was no doubt in Michele’s mind. He put the frame back with little delicacy, not resisting the temptation to place it face down. 

Feeling an odd knot of bile in his gullet, Michele kept looking through Popovich’s belongings. He was already contemplating texting his sister to bring him his own pills here when he opened the Russian’s duffel bag and found them in an inner pocket next to a pair of spare skate laces and some elastic bandage. He grabbed the package and an unopened bottle of water and placed them on the bedside table. 

Well, this was it, his work was done. Except the problem of Popovich being left alone still persisted. 

He looked at the watch on his wrist. It was eleven pm, maybe he could wait a little, see if Popovich was doing okay, and then leave. He turned the desk lamp on before switching the main light off. Then, with a last check to see the Russian was still breathing, Michele plopped down on the desk chair. 

 

Georgi woke up to a strong pounding sound, and winced as his eyes met the harsh glare of the light. The room swayed in front of his eyes, and after a moment he realised the pounding sound was his own heartbeat, and the glare came from the small lamp on the desk. He still felt the tendrils of alcohol enveloping his limbs. He closed his eyes. Yes, he definitely needed to sleep it off. 

But he was terribly thirsty. His tongue felt sticky and parched. He groaned into the pillow, forcing his unbalanced body to move. His arm shot out towards the bedside table for support while he dragged his legs from under the covers. 

With a bit of fumbling, he managed to get up from the bed without toppling. Only to realise he was wearing no clothes whatsoever. He could feel the slightly chilly air of the room on his naked skin, but his mind didn’t really register any of it until he dropped his gaze and saw his body in its entire glory. Well, that was confusing.

Georgi blinked twice, still uncertain in his balance, while his sluggish mind tried to make sense of his current state. He never slept naked. In fact, Georgi was quite fond of pyjamas, and robes to wrap himself into after he left the warmth of his bed. 

Vision still swimming, Georgi tried to remember how he had ended up in his room to begin with, but even as random flashes of memories passed in front of his dancing gaze, he felt the pressure of thirst become stronger and stronger. He had several bottles of water, he was sure of it, so he moved forward, but his legs supported him badly and he nearly fell. The hand on the bedside table gripped the edge of it to keep him upright, jostling the nightstand. 

A bottle of water rolled towards his hand.

And Georgi blinked twice, thinking he must have imagined it. But no, there was a whole bottle of water resting against his hand. Gingerly he lifted it, and fumbled with his fingers until he managed to uncap it. He took a sip. He was definitely not dreaming, or hallucinating. 

He gulped down half of it in one go, breathing heavily by the time he was done. He turned his eyes towards the bedside table where the water had magically appeared, and saw a package of painkillers. Ah, not magic, a guardian angel then, his still inebriate brain supplied while he fished a couple of pills and downed them with the rest of the water. 

It was all very befuddling, but in a positive way, and Georgi stumbled through the room towards the en suite. After taking care of his bladder, he opened the wardrobe and took his pyjamas out. The world might have been doing death spirals around him, but muscle memory led him to where he had hung his pyjamas and robe that morning. He almost fell when he pulled the bottoms on, but he managed somehow. Twenty and some years of figure skating had been useful for his balance.

He chuckled, finding the notion incredibly hilarious. Yeah, all the training had done him some good at least. Georgi shook his head as he huffed a bout of dry laughter as he hobbled back to his bed. And then the laughter died on his lips.

Georgi was not alone.

Slumped in a pile of limbs and wrinkled shirt, a man was sleeping in his desk chair, head buried in his arms, and was that Georgi’s scarf? He stared at the sleeping figure trying to rake his brain for information, but he was running a blank. 

Suddenly he noticed the coppery sheen of hair. And then everything clicked back into place. The banquet, Anya, the champagne, Mila and Sara, her brother all but carrying him to his room, crying, taking a bath. Oh, that explained his state of undress, he thought idly, and mildly embarrassed. But what was the Italian doing, sleeping at his desk. It could not be a comfortable position.

His vision still swimming, albeit less, Georgi debated what to do. He could wake the skater up and send him to his room. But Crispino had done so much for Georgi, acting like a veritable guardian angel. And he appeared to be in the deepest throes of sleep. 

Well, Georgi’s bed  _ was  _ large enough, he mused while his body already began moving before he even made a conscious decision. He wobbled in front of the slumbering skater, and tried to find the easiest way to move him from the chair to the bed. 

In the end he lifted him bridal style and stumbled the two meters that separated the desk from the bed, nearly dropping them both on the bed. Crispino mumbled something in his sleep, and Georgi held his breath. His breathing evened a moment later, and he let out a sigh of relief. Feeling slightly more sober than before Georgi slid the Italian’s shoes off, and tucked him under the covers. 

He switched the desk light off, walked to the other side of the bed, and slid inside.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Per la Madonna/Cristo iddio_ \- For heaven's sake  
>  _Da_ \- Yes  
>  _Khorosho_ \- Good


End file.
